Poetry

A Christmas Poem — “The General Store Christmas”

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“The General Store Christmas”

A present for his father.

A gift for his mom.

A dolly for sister Susan.

A Tonka truck for brother Tom.

A hairbrush for Grandma Betty,

A Sunday tie for Grandpa Bill.

Milk-bones for little Petey,

With a doggie sweater for the chill.

But what to give a horse,

For whom he cared and fed?

Just the perfect present — 

A shiny apple for Ol’ Ned!

He’d worked for many weeks,

Saving money for Christmas cheer.

Finding all the perfect gifts,

For those he held so dear.

He’d waded thru the snow,

To Rosebud’s General Store.

Stacking presents on his sled,

Til he couldn’t fit no more.

Heading home, away he went,

Across the countryside.

Pulling his gifts and treasures,

And filled with love and pride.

Awash with Christmas spirit,

He sang happily and free . . . .

“We wish you a Merry Christmas,

And a partridge in a pear tree!”

A Christmas Poem — “Love’s Candle in the Night”

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“Love’s Candle in the Night”

She placed a candle on the windowsill,

Flickering soft and gentle light.

Waiting for love’s return,

On a dark and snowy night.

Christmas lights twinkled,

Glittered ribbons sparkled silvery bright.

While softly sifted snow fell,

Each flake divinely measured flight.

Blanketing tree and bush and road,

The snow covered all in downy white.

No sound of breath or footstep,

Merely winter’s silent might.

Pensive moments passed like hours,

Awaiting heart’s delight.

❄    ❄    ❄    ❄    ❄    ❄    ❄

The

Snow fell,

On this winter night.

Shapeless forms ever taller,

Drifting, rising to great heights.

Anxious thoughts and worries mounted,

Pondering love’s lost and snowbound plight.

But hope is everlasting and renewed each Christmas Eve,

When love is all around us and comforts winter’s frosty bite. 

The candle flame then brightened, sending forth it’s warming glow,

For no amount of wind or snow could forestall love’s return on this joyous night. 

Fear and worries then abated,

When love came into sight,

Trudging ever homeward,

Guided by love’s candle in the night.

“The Rubbly Bubbly Bath”

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A hungry little bear sat alone on a hill.

Honey jar in paws, ever careful not to spill.

He spoke not a word while opening the jar,

gazing over the meadows and fields afar.

Sticking in his tongue, slurping and lapping up the sweet honey,

he enjoyed the beauty of the day, so warm bright and sunny.

Honey drizzled down his chin and all over his front,

“Ugh! I’m all sticky! Egads!” he exclaimed with a grunt!

“What will my Mother say,

when she sees me this way?”

“She will want me to bathe and then toss me in the river.”

And with this worrisome thought, his lip started to quiver.

Though his dire hunger was now sated,

new bath concerns went unabated.

The sweet honey nearly gone,

he then leaned back with a yawn.

And remaining honey now out of reach with his tongue,

The bear remembered a tune which his mother had sung.

“Joshua Giraffe was born in a zoo,

he lived there, too.

For two years and a half,

he hasn’t had a bath . . .”    *

He sang the verse boldly as he wandered back home,

Still hoping not to be drowned in wretched soap foam.

With icky sticky honey all over his fur,

he crept beside Mother, to hide, snuggle and purr.

But a bear is not a cat,

so shouldn’t try to do that.

Bath time was on as he wriggled and squirmed,

dunked in the river, his bath fears confirmed.

But since the bears don’t use soap,

There were no reasons to mope.

With no shampoo in his eyes to cause any tears,

he had no real worries to support all his fears.

Wee bear shouldn’t have tried to conceal his icky sticky self.

Not when there’s a jar of honey noticed missing from the shelf.

Mothers always seem to know when something is amiss.

Besides, all bath times end with a motherly bear kiss.

Bear and Cub bath time- Pinterest, uncredited

Note *– Song lyric excerpt from “Joshua Giraffe” lyrics by Raffi Cavoukian

Charles Dickens for Dinner, So to Speak

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Worked well past midnight again on what I am now calling the “Poetry Project”, or “PP” for short.  In the end, it may turn out exactly so.  Hope not.

Charles Dickens is being quite helpful, albeit demanding and forceful.  I decided to stay healthy for dinner last night and dropped the Pepperoni we had discussed from our pizza, opting for only assorted veggies instead.  I think he was disappointed, mumbling something about wanting a “decently struck meat pie”.  Hard to catch it all thru the accent at times, to be honest.  Dickens was not well pleased with his trip to America in life, so we’ll have to see how this one turns out.  The veggie pizza probably didn’t do much to further relations.

Maybe the poem collaboration will lead to a book in the end– “Charles Dickens and I”, or “Charles Dickens in My Head” or something, like the lady who wrote about she and Julia Child.  Charles doesn’t cook or give out recipes of course, providing lines of poetry instead.  Not sure how long he’s planning to stick around though.  Perhaps a nice roast for the weekend may help.  I don’t feel qualified to attempt a proper meat pie.

Woke up around 5am this morning with a few more lines to jot down.  Two lines yesterday.  A few more today.   Like I said, this one’s going to take a while with other projects going on, too.  Dickens is generally considered the greatest novelist of the Victorian period, so why he has appeared to drive along a poetry project instead of a renowned poet is beside me, although it’s not like he never wrote any poems either.  Regardless, I am very grateful for the help and have found it best not to question who the Muses send.

I keep getting stand alone, disorganized,  independent lines as they pop into my head, and in the end putting them together in a meaningful fashion may be like trying to assemble a jigsaw puzzle in a hurricane.  Yeah, I’d better order that roast to keep Mr. Dickens around a while longer.  At least until Shakespeare or Robert Frost show up.

In the meantime, here’s a photo of some of London’s East End street kids from Horace Warner, c 1901-02.  He called them “Spitalfields Nippers”.  Great term– “Spitalfield”.   It might fit into it all somehow.  With the lamp.   Or not.   Mr. Dickens liked to work in serial fashion, and I think he is having sport while serializing this poem into my head.

Anyway, wishing everyone a wonderful day!  Off now, I hear Mr. Dickens calling again.  Quite demanding, he is.

By the way– I suppose to be safe, if anyone has a proper recipe for a good meat pie, I’d appreciate your sending it along.  Just in case.

"Spitalfields Nippers" by Horace Warner, c 1901-02,

“Spitalfields Nippers” by Horace Warner, c 1901-02,